13 Portraits of Perfection
by Kingsdaughter613
Summary: in shades of Black and Red; in Green and Silver. An introspective piece. The thirteen women who stole the Serpent's heart, from the Middle Ages to the Modern day. Some crossovers - if you can catch them.


Thirteen Portraits of Perfection

_Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,_

_but anyone can see the beauty of the thirteen_

_who stole the heart of the Serpent._

_Marie_

_**They met as he ran through a hail of bullets. The last time he saw her he was running from the same.**_

He had amnesia, could not remember his name, his home, his purpose. The last would bring them together; the last would brutally tear them apart. He was an undercover operative whose mission had gone off the wire. He was a liability, a rogue soldier, MIA, AWL.

He could piece together some of the pieces. He had been shot, and the resulting damage had caused his memory loss. Completely wrong as it turned out, but then how was he to know that wild magic had sent him on a ride through time - wiping his identity and changing his features in the process – just to teach him to live on his toes, using his cunning to survive? To 'help' him along, he was hunted, hunted by his own government.

At the time he had hated them; later he had helped build the country.

He met her as he ran. He needed a hostage, she was available. Sometimes he can believe it when people say that God spends his days putting people together. Crazy way for a relationship to start, but it start it did.

_He tried to add some of that, some of her craziness, her wildness. A gypsy like traveler, never staying long in anyone place. But she had stayed with him. If only he could get the right shade of auburn for her hair…_

He had offered her the chance to leave eventually. Of course, by then it was too late. They were both in the sights of an assassin's rifle. They split up, the better to run, only that was what their pursuers wanted. He had found her, and just in time, literally ripping her out of the hands of a Parisian rapist. She refused to leave after that.

_He tries to add that warmth, that caring and understanding. Tries to show the woman who saw into an assassin and knew him for what he truly was. A lost man trying to find himself. He tries, but he cannot be certain he succeeds…_

They dyed her hair, changed their appearance. Of course they did; he was the chameleon. They hid out in a friend's house – one of hers, not his. He could not remember his. When they were found he protected them all. And he killed again. Or he thought it was again.

He made her leave after that. Promised to find her when he was done. And when he was done, when the man with the limp who owned a brownstone, address 71, in Manhattan, was dead on the streets, dead in his sights. And then he went to find her.

_He tries to show her joy, her delight. Her happiness, and though startled by his sudden appearance, her lack of surprise. She had known he would come, had never doubted it. But though he struggles, there is only so much a brush can say…_

They never married, but it never mattered to him. In his heart they were wed. It would have been official, but that meant documents and documents could find you. In the end it did not help. Found, hunted again, a bullet from behind. He kissed her for the last time, the last time he would ever see her, underwater in river in India. Then he swam away and continued to run – and continued his hunt.

_There are things you cannot put in a mundane picture. Things like how hair is twirled, how eyes can speak a thousand words with a glance. For that alone he is grateful for magic, magic that gives his painting life. It is not quite the same, but it is as much as he will ever have. And he smiles as her painted eyes blink and her lips turn upwards in a smile._

_He wonders, as he hangs her on the wall, what she thinks of all this. Marie had known a man whose name was taken by random. A name snatched from the password that happened to be uppermost in the pile. Marie knew a man named Jason._

_**He wonders what she would think of Salazar.**_

Author's Note: Okay, so this is pretty esoteric, but then it IS meant to be. It's an introspective piece. Sal is painting Marie and thinking of her as he does so. Kudos to you if you can recognize the story…

The idea that wild magic will wipe your mind, and give you a new identity when time traveling, does not belong to me. It belongs to the Wicked Witch of the North, and I am using it with permission. Thanks Witch!


End file.
